chet baker

brass bull has branched its horn
its dizzy tunnel
whirlwind of wistful blows
as brittle as the aim of the
infant's harrow play
cloaked in gentleman wear
from bow to toe

its hollow depth
a goblet for somber brews
that skin the walls bare
and steal the thirst of others

the shell's whispers leaving trails
only to vanish at mid phrase
and rain their overcast secrets
to ears the ones turned soft
by heavy pours
and swallowed pain